They sat at one of the better tables, near a gurgling fountain in the garden patio at the rear of the restaurant. Bright green ivy grew on the trellises behind them, and there were yellow tulips everywhere. Wealthy old ladies chatted in small groups at the other tables.
"You need money," his mother said; a statement, not a question. The chef nodded, trying to smile sheepishly.
"Remember how we used to make breakfast?" asked the chef's mother, changing the subject. "In France?"
"With the chocolate?" asked the chef, grateful his mother wasn't chiding him about the money.
"Yes," she said, "with the baguette, the Normandy butter and the big bowl of hot chocolate. We'd serve it in those big blue bowls."
"I loved that," said the chef. "I miss it. Can't do it here, it's not the same."
"It's the butter," said his mother.
She was tall and thin and elegant in a dark blue dress and a single strand of pearls. Her silver hair was put up in a tight bun, giving her countenance a severe aspect. . . Her face was pale and white, offset by the single slash of dark red lipstick. She sat ramrod straight in her chair and, with two long, manicured fingertips, removed a piece of tobacco from the tip of her tongue. Without turning her head, she sensed the waiter's approach, and she extinguished the unfiltered Gitane in a cut-glass ashtray.
The waiter placed an oversize china plate in front of her, saying, "Madame." She inspected the carre d'agneau without moving her head or changing her expression. Three tiny rib chops, impeccably trimmed, were crisscrossed on a stripe of sauce in the middle of the plate. An arrangement of baby vegetables, tied into little bundles with blanched bits of leek, surrounded the lamb. The waiter came around the table and put the chef's turbot down in front of him.
"Look how many truffles they put," said his mother in her slight French accent.
The chef smiled broadly. "Is that cooked to your liking, Maman?" he asked her.
"Parfait," she responded. She liked it when he called her Maman.
The waiter poured her a little more Côtes du Rhône, then lifted a bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse from a silver ice-bucket and refilled the chef's glass. He asked the chef's mother, in French, if there was anything else she would care for. She dismissed him, also in French.
The chef picked up a big piece of black truffle from the top of his turbot with his fingers and popped it in his mouth.
"Oh! Michel!" protested his mother, "not with the hands!"
The chef shook his head and picked up his fork and took a first bite of fish.
"Is it all right? It's moist in the center? It's not cooked too much?" asked his mother, peering across the table.
"It's fine," said the chef. He picked up the oversize white-wine glass and drank half its contents.
"You just got your fish and you've almost finished your wine," she said.
"I can always drink the rest of yours," he said. "You've hardly touched it."
"And stop squirming in your chair like that. Why can't you get comfortable? Something is always eating you," she said.
"Sorry," said the chef.
"And you drink too much," she added.
"I don't drink like this on a regular basis," said the chef. "It's just good wine. I don't drink a lot of wine this good. I'm trying to make the most of it."
She nodded and took a delicate bite from the center of her lamb chop. "I wish you had ordered some meat. You don't look well."
"Maybe it's my liver. Une crise de foie. I left the window open last night. The drafts, the night air . . . "
His mother frowned. "Don't make fun of me, Michel. It's not funny. You don't look well. I worry."
"I'm fine, I'm fine," scowled the chef. "I'm just working too damn hard. Not enough sleep."
"You don't even have health insurance. That terrible man you work for can't even give his people, his chef, health insurance. It's disgraceful."
"He can't afford it right now," said the chef. "I can't afford it."
His mother shook her head disapprovingly. "You could have worked here maybe. I could ask my friends. I'm sure he treats his people correctly here. You should let me ask."
"I couldn't be the chef here," said the chef. "I want to be in charge. I need the money, I can't afford to be just a commis."
"All right," she said. "Not here then, somewhere else, where you could be the chef. Like this."
The chef shook his head slowly. "I couldn't work like this . . . I can't get up at four in the morning and go down Fulton Street and put my nose in a bunch offish gills. I can't do fifteen, sixteen hours a day, six, seven days a week. And I'm just not that good to do this sort of food. Not as the chef anyway."
"That's a terrible defeatist attitude," said his mother. "You didn't always feel like this."
"Yeah, well, I'm getting older," said the chef.
"Exactly. Yes. You are getting older," said his mother. "And you still live like . . . like some sort of gypsy. Never enough money. Changing jobs, every two years another place, another apartment. No family, no insurance, you own nothing."
"I've always got you, right?" he said with a smile.
"Yes. For now. I won't always be here," she said. "I won't be here to help forever. Don't they pay you at your job?"
"They pay me," said the chef. "It's just everything is so expensive, you know. And I owe people money."
"You always owe people money. It's terrible to owe money. I don't owe anybody anything. I don't know how you live like that. And your friends, they look like a . . . like a motorcycle gang, not cuisiniers—"
The chef laughed and hurried to change the subject.
They ate quietly. His mother methodically stripped the last bits of fat from the lamb, leaving three thin white rib bones on an otherwise empty plate. The busboy appeared and removed the plates. The waiter pushed a cheese cart alongside the table. The chef's mother reached into her purse for her glasses and, perching them at the end of her nose, leaned over to inspect the cheese. After a moment's reflection she chose a runny-looking Pont l'Eveque. The chef, without looking, requested a wedge each of St. Andre and Camembert.
"I guess we like soft cheeses," said the chef.
"The cheese here is not the same. They ruin it for export," said his mother.
"They pasteurize it," said the chef.
"It's not the same," said his mother.
"Maybe you should live in France."
"Then how could I help you when you get in trouble. Who would give you money for your debts. Besides, I could not go back. It's a communist country now," she said.
"Socialist," corrected the chef.
"The same thing. De Gaulle should have put them all in prison. After the war."
The chef's mother took a last bite of cheese, dotted her mouth with the point of a napkin, and leaned forward. "Do you use a condom?" she asked.
Shocked, the chef tilted his head. "What?"
"When you, when you go out with your friends, maybe to meet a girl, some girl. Do you use a condom? I've been reading articles in the magazine."
"Yes, Maman," said the chef, embarrassed. He glanced at the surrounding tables to see if anyone else had heard. The old ladies at the next table were busy drinking martinis and commenting on the busboy's buttocks.
"Well, that is something. That's good. You should always use one," said his mother, satisfied.
"What have you been watching, Oprah or something?" asked the chef.
"What is Oprah?" inquired his mother.
"Forget it. Joke," said the chef.
"Qu'est ce que vous voulez comme dessert, madame?" inquired the waiter as the busboy whisked the cheese plates off the table. The chef's mother strained to see the dessert cart.
"Tell bucket-head to bring the cart closer," said the chef, slightly tipsy.
"SSSH! Ça suffit!"
The waiter had already moved over to the cart and was bringing it alongside the table. The chef's mother carefully scrutinized each item on the three-tiered pastry cart. "Ah!" she exclaimed. "Paris-Brest. Will you look, Michel, Paris-Brest. Remember?" She pointed a finger, and the waiter cut and served a portion. "Gimme one a those, too," said the chef to the waiter. When the waiter disappeared, his mother scolded him. "You shouldn't speak like that. I eat here every week."
"I'm sorry, Ma. Just enjoying myself. Loosen up. I'm having a good time, see?" said the chef.
"You like the dessert? You remember the last time we had it?" she asked.
"In Chagny? It was that place with all the dogs, right?"
"Yes. Chez Denis. Paris-Brest is absolutely my favorite. They made it so well. This is also excellent. Do you like it?"
"It's great," said the chef, shoveling an enormous mouthful into his face, creme Chantilly gathering at the corners of his mouth. "This was a great meal. Outstanding."
"And I suppose I'm paying for it," said his mother.
"Well," said the chef.
"And you said you need money," said his mother, reaching into her purse. She handed him a check for a thousand dollars, written in her spidery, old-lady scrawl. "I'm only giving you this if you promise to get a haircut. You look like a cannibal like that." She held onto one end of the check. "And make sure they trim your sideburns, I don't want people thinking you are, you are some sort of terrorist."
"Sure, Maman" said the chef. She released the check.
The chef put his soiled napkin over his empty dessert plate and sat back in his chair. Andre, the chef and owner of the restaurant, came over to the table to pay his respects. He wore a spotless white chef's coat with Chinese buttons and the French tricolor adorning the collar. His name was embroidered over the chest pocket in flawless blue script, his starched toque piled high up over his head. He spoke in French for a few moments with the chef's mother, inquiring about the meal and her health. They discussed mutual friends.
She turned to the chef and in English said, "Andre, allow me to present my son, Michel. He is a chef also." The chef sat up in his chair and extended his hand. He wanted to die.